


sunshine bouquet

by shaekspeares



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: A study in Anne's romanticism and also the people who love her, Anne-centric, Bisexual Anne Shirley, Canon Compliant, Domestic Anne/Gilbert, F/F, F/M, Found Family, M/M, Multi, Near Future, Platonic Relationships, Romantic Gestures, Somehow a love square grew from my main ships in this fandom don't ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaekspeares/pseuds/shaekspeares
Summary: Six kisses Anne receives across the years, and six people she loves for it.
Relationships: Cole Mackenzie & Anne Shirley, Diana Barry/Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Jerry Baynard & Anne Shirley, Ka'kwet & Anne Shirley, Marilla Cuthbert & Anne Shirley, Mentioned Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Mentioned Gilbert Blythe/Jerry Baynard
Comments: 22
Kudos: 112





	sunshine bouquet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been very intermittently working on this since I rapidly consumed the entirety of the last season of AWAE about a year ago, and though I think the fandom is likely dead and also disinterested in this type of story I hold these characters too dear not to upload this story. 
> 
> My thoughts on the show are very influenced by my love for the books themselves, but I would particularly like to thank the show-runners for giving me Cole, Jerry and Ka'Kwet, and also for pushing me to give Diana and Anne the relationship they clearly would have had had the books not been written when they were (thanks Aunt Josephine). I was sorry to see AWAE go, but I'm glad it was there for as long as it was.
> 
> Anyways, without further ado: the product of my many thoughts on Anne's growing familiarity with (and enduring amazement for) the affection she is shown by the people in her life.

**six kisses**

i. _Marilla_

The first kiss Anne receives, the very first and most important of all, is perhaps not technically the first. After all, those precious and unremembered years of her life when she was her parents’ are just as much a part of her memory as any other, though they remain forever elusive, lost to time. It is possible, plausible, probable thus, that there were many kisses before the First, but as much as Anne likes to dwell on them, she cannot quite conjure them. What she does remember is this: years and years without kisses, without affection, without so much as touch. This is one of the things she had to relearn at Green Gables: how touch felt when it was not brusque, or punishing, or impersonal.

Matthew is the one who first touches her kindly, a hand to the shoulder, light and hesitant like a summer breeze, and then maybe Diana, in their earliest encounters, pressing her hand in farewell like a princess from a fairytale. But it is Marilla who delivers her first and most treasured kiss, over a month into her new life at Green Gables.

Marilla, in some ways, encapsulates Anne’s new life best. She is harsh and disciplined and they butt heads endlessly; unlike Matthew, soft and kind and understanding, Anne finds it easy to resent her when they first meet, to fear that she is like all other stern women who have frowned down at Anne in disdain before. She is the link to the Before, where Anne’s escapades were only ever Cordelia’s. And yet Marilla is kind, and good, and caring, and once Anne knows this about her she cannot help but love her tremendously.

It is this dichotomy which keeps Marilla’s touches just efficient enough to disguise tenderness for quite some time. Even when Marilla’s hugs and strokes come easily, later, her rebuking grasp does not lessen. So at first Anne is content to savour the glimpses of more, to take all the relieved hugs she can get, to covet the brief stroking of her hair.

When it happens it doesn’t happen like she expects it to at all. There is no dramatic incident to speak of, or not Dramatic as Anne would like it anyhow, just an average day of work and troubling boys and a great deal of reading, because the weather is bad enough that Jerry gets to eat dinner with them as the rain rages outside, so that Anne spends half of the meal trading kicks with him under the table as they fight over the last morsels of bread.

Afterwards, when Jerry has stubbornly escaped back to wherever he lives with other Jerry-shaped people, Anne helps Marilla clean, a steady stream of mostly one-sided conversation ringing through the kitchen as they work.

“...And I said, well, truly there must be greater wrongs in the world than them, because without the English we might’ve been an American colony,” Anne recounts, spirited, “I have to say I can’t stand the idea of being an American, it’s so dreadfully unromantic, and though I’ve never met an American myself I imagine they’re all very boorish people, so maybe I could see why Jerry would enjoy that-“

“I certainly hope you didn’t tell him that!”

“I’m sorry, Marilla, but I had to defend the English honour somehow! Jerry is always very unreasonable when-“

Marilla fixes her with a look until Anne falls silent, lip jutted out defensively at the injustice of being silenced when Jerry is so very difficult to coexist with.

“Have you given any thought to what you will make for the church fair on Sunday?”

“Perhaps a cake,” Anne suggests, brightening immediately at the prospect. “Mind you, baking has never been my strong suit, but bringing a cake just seems so fitting. I could carry it in a basket, even. Wouldn’t that be delightful?”

“We’ll see if we have what you need,” Marilla says, shaking her head, but she raises a brow with mild concern when she catches sight of Anne’s expression. “What? What is it?”

“Oh, Marilla,” Anne groans, very piteously. Her stomach feels hollow. “I can’t believe I never asked- it just occurred to me-“

“Asked for what?” Marilla replies, other brow raising in mild alarm.

“Your birthdays!” Anne exclaims, spinning a little in her anguish. “Oh, how could I not ask? I might have missed them already! I could have made something, or-“

“Oh, calm down,” Marilla grouses, which does actually work a little, just because it doesn’t sound like something someone would say if their birthday had been forgotten. Then again, Marilla is no mere someone; Anne continues vibrating nervously. “Matthew and I were both born in the winter.”

“Oh,” Anne exhales, tremendously relieved. “Oh, good.”

“You mustn’t work yourself up so over the slightest things,” Marilla reproaches, gesturing for Anne to hand over her cleaning rag. “You will develop some hysterical condition and die before you reach thirty.”

“That is a very poetic time to die,” Anne sighs, smoothing her hair as she contemplates herself floating in darkness, a pale maiden with beautiful auburn tresses. “I can’t imagine myself older than that.”

“You had better stop imagining and pay attention to the life you have,” Marilla informs her, sternly, and then gestures upwards. “For instance, you might consider going to bed- we have church in the morning.”

“Yes, yes,” Anne agrees, deflating a little. “May I read before I go to sleep? Just for a minute?”

“Ten minutes,” Marilla offers, as Anne comes to bid her goodnight. “And wash your face thoroughly- you have some kind of dirt on your brow, though heaven only knows how it got there.”

“I will,” Anne promises, letting Marilla thumb at the dirty spot with impatience. “Good night, Marilla.”

“Good night, Anne,” Marilla says, with mild exasperation, letting her hands fall to Anne’s shoulders as she contemplates her. “Off you go now.”

There is a clatter as Matthew drags some of his equipment inside to weather the storm, and Marilla huffs and reaches distractedly to kiss Anne’s forehead before she goes after him, hoisting her skirts and sighing as she goes.

Anne stands frozen, arms stiff by her sides before she makes an aborted movement to reach for her forehead, tingling all over. For a moment she can’t hear anything but her own heartbeat, racing like a wild horse.

Slowly, Marilla and Matthew’s voices reach her ears, Marilla’s rapid-fire questioning and Matthew’s mumbled complaints, and she comes back to life, feeling like the kiss has been stamped on her forehead, spreading sunbeams to her extremities, every limb buzzing with it.

Her march up the stairs is triumphant; when she reaches her rooms she twirls as broadly as she can to get to her window. Her gleeful laughter catches in the rain, like a secret, like something too big to contain inside her room.

She falls asleep smiling.

ii. _Cole_

Cole is not the first amongst her friends to kiss her- this is an honour that goes to Diana, who gets into the habit of kissing her cheeks in greeting once Anne effusively tells her that they should add something of the nature to their salute, and is always very lovely doing so. Even Ruby and the girls might have endowed her with a grateful kiss on the cheek before Cole enters the scene. Cole, however, is the first one of her friends who kisses her without her expecting it, and not in the throes of mutual female passion.

It’s not during that nightmareish spin the bottle affair, of course- Anne had been the one to take initiative then, and besides she feels that any other kiss bestowed upon her during that game would have been irrevocably defiled by circumstances. No, the Kiss she remembers Cole best for comes quietly, unannounced by schoolyard ceremony, in the weeks following that whole debacle.

As meaningful first kisses go, it is not quite the kiss of Anne’s imagination. Cole is actually quite befitting of his role- Princess Cordelia could not have asked for a better suitor, kind and clever and artistic, with that wonderful blonde hair and those charming eyes. It’s just that he means no romance by it, to Anne’s chagrin: it is hard to imagine she will encounter anyone more princely in her life, and the one time she does, it now seems clear that they are woefully romantically disinterested in one another.

It is not, thus, the fairytale kiss she might have dreamt up during the bottle spin intrigue, a dashing affair wherein featured a lot of swooning and declarations of love. Probably for the best- she is still waiting for her hair to mature from orange to auburn, for full effect.

It happens on a calm afternoon, the two of them sat by the river as Cole sketches and Anne writes. Since the kiss Cole has been especially sparing with his touches, shy with his affection if not with his words. Not that Anne minds- Cole gives plenty with his gaze, big pensive eyes communicating his thoughts silently when they meet hers. She thinks he keeps his hands to himself out of habit, anyhow, long coaxed out of being soft with his touches. It’s only when he is creating that they come alive, gentle in their strength, making something beautiful where there was nothing before.

“Oh, Cole,” Anne says, awed, catching a glimpse of his paper. “That is the loveliest tree I have ever seen.”

“Thank you,” Cole answers, blushing a little as he ducks his head, his hands staying their motion as Anne gazes wide-eyed at the drawing. “I’m not very good at plants yet. I find them hard to capture without killing their spirit.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded here,” Anne declares, with the authority of one who knows this sort of thing. “Look at the branches, swaying! I feel like I could plunge right into the picture, caress the leaves.”

“You’re so good with words,” Cole observes, a little less shy, contemplating his drawing like he’s seeking the movement she described. “When you write your stories I feel like I could plunge right into _them_.”

Anne beams, with the thrill of a good compliment, crosses her legs. “Perhaps one day I could be an author, and you could be my famous illustrator. Although of course as a renowned artist I would have to beg you for your time.”

Cole laughs, despite himself, clear like bells, shakes his head. “Of course. You really have the wildest imagination.”

“Speaking of,” Anne says, remembering, and reaches for her satchel. “You know the other day when you gave me that delightful sketch of the Lady of Shallot? I thought, considering that you’ve drawn for my stories, I might write for your illustrations, and so-“

She tugs at her satchel, frees the carefully wrapped pages she brought along. They flutter a little in the breeze as she hands them to Cole, who silently extends his hands, expression slack with surprise.

“I hope you like it,” Anne continues, suddenly a little shy, because Cole isn’t looking at her, just thumbing the pages, withdrawn and quiet. “It’s the first time I’ve tried to write like this.”

Cole sets the papers down carefully, his pen weighing them down against the wind, and before she can quite decipher the look on his face he’s reached to take her hands in his and kiss her on both cheeks, firm and steady.

He pulls back, still holding her hands; Anne feels herself flush.

“Thank you,” Cole says, gravely. Anne finds herself at a rare loss for words.

“I- well, I- you’re welcome.”

It’s rather lame, as answers go, but Cole smiles, releases her hands, sits back to start leafing through the pages. Anne watches him for a beat, pulse rapid, then feels her smile grow helplessly.

She thinks, as she scoots over to watch him read, that as proper first kisses go this one is rather a lovely way to do things.

iii. _Jerry_

She has collected a great deal of kisses by the time Jerry kisses her, though none from him, of course. Even once their mutual suspicion has long vanished, they are simply not the kissing sort, nor particularly prone to any such tender gestures of friendship. Theirs is a more practical relationship, and Anne appreciates his misspelt cards far more than she would appreciate some delicate romantic affair. As such, she is caught fully unawares by the sordid event.

They are sat in the barn, high up on the loft, between barrels of hay; it is springtime, and though Anne is older and wiser and no longer prone to the hysterics that overtook her during the lamentable bottle spin affair, it seems kissing is an unavoidable hot topic even amongst sophisticated young ladies as herself, because for two weeks now the school has been abuzz with rumours about Josie Pye’s triumph, being the first of the girls to collect a real, mouth-on-mouth kiss with a beau in public.

“It’s not really in public,” Jerry points out, ever the realist, as he peels an apple with his pocketknife. “There were no adults around.”

“That’s not what public means,” Anne corrects him, loftily, although she takes his point. “And, anyhow, it’s the principle of the thing. Though of course I cannot say I am surprised, being that Josie Pye is such a handsome girl, with those curls and that complexion. I daresay she is one of the prettiest girls I have ever seen.”

“I think Diana is much prettier,” Jerry offers, nonchalant; Anne shoots him an indignant glare.

“Well, of course she is, but that’s hardly your place to say. And Diana wouldn’t kiss any of the boys in our school. She is much too refined for them.”

Jerry shrugs, slicing the apple in half and offering one to Anne after a second’s consideration. “What is the issue, then? You also think you are too good for those boys, no?”

“That makes me sound like I have airs and graces,” Anne replies, frowning through a bite of her apple, and kicks him in the knee when he pulls a face at her. “I do not! It’s not my fault they’re mostly very dull. And besides, I wouldn’t say no if…”

She trails off, unsure whether this is true, or how to communicate the sad reality: that it does not matter whether she would kiss any of the boys in her class, because none of them would kiss her, anyways. Cole might have, but Cole is gone, and Cole never liked girls in that sense, anyhow.

It’s not that the boys are horrible to her, anymore, besides Billy and his lackeys, of course, but Billy is a nasty boy and Anne spares him little thought. Over time they’ve all gotten quite friendly, and Diane assures her often she is held in high esteem by all of her classmates, that they recognise her as someone special. Anne only wishes she could be content with this, instead of wishing ungratefully that rather than being so special she might be a little prettier, that someone might want to kiss her someday.

“It’s just very difficult being so plain,” Anne finally decides upon, quite immersed in the tragedy of it all. “For girls especially. There are many plain boys, but they all seem to get on just fine.”

She waits for a moment, but Jerry says nothing. When she turns expectantly towards him she finds him gazing absently at the horses, paying her no heed.

“Jerry! You’re not even listening!”

“You like to talk to yourself!” Jerry retorts, completely unapologetic. “What do you want me to say, anyway? If I say you are plain you will be upset and if I say you are not then you will not believe me, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I know I’m plain,” Anne replies, stung, “I was asking for- for moral support, not flattery. If I wanted to be flattered I certainly wouldn’t go to you. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

It’s Jerry’s turn to glare. “How would you know? I don’t tell you all the details of my life.”

“I just find it hard to imagine that any girl would be interested,” Anne sniffs. She doesn’t expect his frown to deepen so much; she drops the offended tone before he can turn to stare at his hands, feeling guilty. It’s not often that any of her barbs land. “Jerry?”

Jerry only grunts, playing with the knife; Anne bites her lip. “I didn’t mean it. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jerry mutters, looking vaguely embarrassed now. “I _have_ had- girls, you know.”

“Really?” Anne asks, amazed again. She tilts her head, trying to picture Jerry with a girl who isn’t her, can only conjure the way he tilts his hat at Diana. “Anyone I know?”

“Of course not,” Jerry snorts, more comfortable now. “Not English girls.”

“Was it serious?” Anne asks, now trying to imagine Jerry at the heart of some torrid affair. It is immensely difficult. She supposes, examining him intently, that Jerry is sort of handsome, actually, but he’s just so very Jerry. “Were you devastated when it ended?”

“Non,” Jerry says, with a lazy smile, bursting the bubble. Anne pulls a face at him, disguising embarrassment.

“Spare me the details, then.”

“You are the one who is digging all of this up!”

“Only because- oh, nevermind,” Anne sighs, now back to reflecting on her own barren love life. So even Jerry, who carries frogs in his pockets, scorns poetry, and fell asleep the one time Anne tried to read him Pride and Prejudice, is more of an acceptable target of romance than she is. How depressing.

“I think all of those English boys are very boring,” Jerry offers, eventually, breaking through her melancholic reflections. “So it’s not much of a loss.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Anne protests, though she realises as they stare at each other that she has little by way of a counter-argument. Then, miraculously: “Gilbert is a very interesting boy, and he’s English.”

“You want to kiss Gilbert Blythe?” Jerry asks, raising a brow; Anne flushes, the thought sending uneasy pangs of what can only be disgust through her.

“Of course not, I’m just _saying_. And it’s not like French boys are any better.”

Jerry rolls his eyes. “You don’t know any French boys.”

“I know you,” Anne says, grinning pointedly, which makes him snort. “Which is damning enough for the French.”

“ _Tu es ridicule_ ,” Jerry responds, and shakes his head, ineffectively dusting his trousers. “I have to get back home. My mother doesn’t want me late tonight.”

“Fine, leave me here to despair in solitude,” Anne sighs, morosely. “I thought you might be more understanding than Diana, who everyone wants to kiss, but since even you share none of my difficulties I can’t expect you to empathise.”

“ _Even me_ ,” Jerry says flatly, pocketing his knife. “Maybe no boy will kiss you because you are so rude.”

“Oh, go home, already,” Anne shoots back, suppressing a smile at the mocking tone of his reproach. “Since you don’t care about my suffering.”

“I don’t understand why you make such a big deal out of small things,” Jerry replies, getting to his feet. As the tallest boy Anne knows he has to bend almost in half to avoid the ceiling. “Kissing is not- it’s not a big problem. Everyone kisses.”

“Not me,” Anne says, collecting the peels as she stands too. “So it will inevitably always be a big deal, you see, as I will forever be left to wonder at its mysteries.”

Jerry groans as he pushes past her down the stairs, forever lacking the imagination to understand the emotional turmoils of the female mind. Or perhaps just Anne’s.

“There are no mysteries. It’s just a kiss.”

“Perhaps to you. I don’t expect you to understand the deep meaning of it all.”

“I understand it better than you,” Jerry argues, halting at the bottom of the stairs to turn and stare her down. “You don’t even know what it’s like!”

“Well, that’s-” Anne starts, crossing her arms, “That’s besides the point, actually, because I’m talking about the symbolism of it all, and-“

“ _C’est qu’un baiser_!” Jerry exclaims, and then before Anne can so much as utter a word to explain exactly how her theoretical understanding trumps his practical experience, he’s planted a hand on each of her shoulders and kissed her soundly on the mouth, a loud smacking noise accompanying the gesture.

It lasts all of a second before he pulls back, a bewildering warm presence on her, and then Anne yelps in outrage and bats at him, uncomprehending. “You- you!”

“I told you it’s nothing!” Jerry says, dodging blows, but he has the decency to look sort of embarrassed and also quite worried, like he thinks he may have overstepped to an unforgivable extent. Anne only sputters, still stuck in disbelief.

“It _could_ have been something! You _spoiled_ my first kiss!”

“Well, maybe you won’t be so worried about it next time!”

Anne is on the verge of deciding whether she is mollified enough by the fact that Jerry seems sure she will not go the rest of her days unkissed to forego knocking him into the dirt when the barn door opens and they both startle, jumping further apart.

“Oh, ah,” Matthew says, looking more startled than either of them though he has no reason to be. “Anne, Marilla is looking for you, so she is.”

There is a beat of silence, Anne’s heart thundering in her chest as she tries to convince herself that there is no way Matthew could guess the horrors that transpired in his barn just by looking at them, and then she glances at Jerry and finds him pale with trepidation.

Jerry hasn’t looked at her with so much uncertainty in over a year, and she tries to send him a look that translates that while she finds him utterly despicable and ungentlemanly, she would also never try and get him kicked off the farm in revenge, so he can look slightly less ill about it. She doubts it succeeds; he just looks confused.

“Well, duty calls,” Anne sighs, hopping off the final steps and trying not to be too obvious about the distance she leaves between the two of them as she marches towards Matthew. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jerry only belatedly mumbles a reply; Anne pauses once she’s past Matthew to shoot daggers at him, and he just shakes his head like the dolt he is, brows scrunched up like he doesn’t understand her.

She holds it against Jerry for years to come, though he never seems very sorry, and she absolutely never tells him that from then onwards she went into the world with a little more bounce in her step, having conquered the unconquerable kiss.

iv. _Ka’kwet_

Ka’kwet’s kiss is special not by virtue of being a first of any kind, but because it marks the beginning and end of a very terrible time, and Anne cherishes it for the latter.

Their little meetings do not happen so often as Anne would like during the beginnings of their friendship, but once a week that winter Anne tries her best to free the time to run over to the camp, where she and Ka’kwet sit and braid each other’s hair, or scour for berries, or help weave baskets, and it reminds her a little of talking with Diana and a little of talking with Jerry but mostly just of the thrill of new friendships.

They are kindred spirits, the two of them, both headstrong and brave and naturally curious; Anne is ever so glad to have met her, and tells her so often, which only makes Ka’kwet laugh and agree. There is something very easy about spending time with her.

Across the days Anne continues her stream of questioning, endlessly curious, and Ka’kwet answers as best she can, entertained by her enthusiasm, telling stories and translating as best she can. Sometimes Ka’kwet is the one asking, too, but mostly she seems content to share, like she enjoys being given the opportunity to display how proud she is of her culture. It is with little trepidation, thus, that Anne comes to her with a burning question, put forth by the girls at school: it concerns Eskimo kissing.

When she says so, Ka’kwet looks confused for a moment, then laughs.

“Eskimo kissing?”

“Is that not the right name? Ruby said her cousin-“

“No, I know what you mean,” Ka’kwet reassures, bobbing her head. “But you should not call them Eskimo. They call themselves Inuit.”

“I didn’t know,” Anne rushes, apologetic. “What’s the difference?”

“Inuit just means man, but Eskimo- they find it…” Ka’kwet trails off, purses her lips. “Rude.”

“I’m sorry!”

Ka’kwet smiles, a little mischievously. “No, no. ‘Eskimo’ is what we call them, also, only we say it different, like _ayas̆kimew_. It means person who laces a snowshoe. But it is different when you say it.”

“Oh,” Anne says, nodding. “I understand.”

“Why do you ask about the Eskimo kiss?”

“Well, Ruby- my classmate, the little blonde girl, who looks like a doll- has a cousin whose wife is from the territories, and she told him about it, and we weren’t sure if it was true or not, on account of it sounding like an odd way to kiss.”

“I am not very familiar with it,” Ka’kwet shrugs, pensive. “Those people live far up north. But my- how you say, grandmother? She says they do it like that because it is so cold that often with their hoods only their noses show.”

“But surely, inside is where-“

“It is not kissing like that,” Ka’kwet says, amused now. “It is just to say hello in a friendly way.”

“I see,” Anne says, illuminated. “Not a romantic kiss, but a token of affection.”

“Yes,” Ka’kwet agrees, pleased. “I think it must be easier for your kind to do, because you all have such large noses.”

“Oh,” Anne says, taken aback, then considers it. “I suppose we do.” Abruptly, she is struck by inspiration: “Shall we try it?”

Ka’kwet laughs. “Yes. Let’s pretend to be Inuk.”

They sit face to face on the log, and then Anne leans in so the tips of their noses touch. It lasts barely a second before they are overtaken by giggles and she falls back.

From by the campfire Ka’kwet’s mother calls out to them, tone affectionately questioning, and Ka’kwet laughs and replies, Anne attentive as they speak. It is deplorable that she knows no language but English- Diana can speak impeccable French, and Jerry’s English is really very good; she is sure Gilbert picked up many a foreign phrase in his travels, and Cole will undoubtedly have learnt Latin by the next time she sees him, leaving her sorely outclassed by her peers.

“She says we look like good little Inuits,” Ka’kwet reports back, grinning broadly, and Anne laughs excitedly, clapping her hands together.

“Then we shall make it our official greeting!”

They do: it is the last thing Anne does with her before she leaves for school, and the first thing she does when they see each other again, almost a full year later, in a flurry of tears, grasping gratefully at her friend’s devastatingly short hair as they clasp one another on the train platform, Anne’s grand dress a dirtied mess.

“Hello, friend,” Ka’kwet manages, nose to nose, with a trembling smile, as Anne tries to contain her own joyful sobs.

“Hello, friend,” Anne repeats, and then they both laugh, despite the tears, and release each other a little, and Ka’kwet’s parents recapture her, her father pressing her to him as Anne beams.

Years later she still tells people it is the most important kiss she ever received, for without it she could never have redeemed the saddest kiss she ever gave.

“It was not a sad kiss,” Ka’kwet replies, shaking out her long tresses. “It gave me hope to think of it when I was in there, because I told myself we would greet again.”

So Anne smiles, and brushes their noses together, and their respective children repeat the gesture excitedly, like good little Inuits, and the two of them laugh and watch them go.

v. _Diana_

With Diana, of course, there are a myriad of kisses, all of great significance and some of _especially_ great significance. If Anne were forced to elect the most important of all Diana-given kisses, however, she thinks she would be obliged to choose the one that occurs two months past Diana’s triumphant arrival at Queens, if only for the impact that it has on every one that follows it.

For the most part, during those early months at Queens, Anne’s life feels dream-like. She is pursuing her studies at a wonderful institution, in the loveliest of rooms, with her very best friend by her side; Cole is easily reached, and Gilbert writes to her from Toronto, and all that she might complain about are the ridiculous rules of the ladies’ home and the fact she misses Green Gables. There are ups and downs, but for the most part she feels almost as though she is holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not since her adoption has she felt so dazzlingly lucky.

That Hallows' Eve, they are the both of them invited to Aunt Josephine’s for a feast, and so of course Anne declares they must go. She is almost besides herself with excitement, reminiscing over the previous affair, speculating as to what colourful people they might meet and how it might look and what wonders Aunt Josephine will arrange; there is also the matter of what to wear, and between the two she is so enthused she can hardly sit still for the duration of her classes. It only occurs to her as they pack that Diana is being uncommonly reserved, and so she interrupts herself mid-tangent to look at her as she examines a dress, spirits dampening a little.

“Are you all right, Diana?”

Diana blinks, caught, then smiles. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

It’s all quite convincing: where Anne simply cannot control the way her face betrays her every emotion, Diana has mastered the art of deceit. Anne, though, has grown to master the art of reading Diana, well enough that she doesn’t take these little dismissals at face value; she hesitates, persists in her inquiry.

“It’s just that you seem- well, less excited than I am. Did- do you not want to go?”

“Oh, no, I do,” Diana rushes to reassure, sounding quite sincere, though she falters a little, glancing at her suitcase. “Only- I don’t know, I suppose I’m a bit nervous.”

“Oh,” Anne says, worrying at her lip. “I’m sure there’s nothing for you to be nervous about. Your aunt likes you very much, and Cole will be glad to see you, and-“

“It’s not that,” Diana interjects, then seems sorry to have done so, shaking her head. “Nevermind, I- could you just tell me what you’re going to wear?”

It’s an obvious deflection, but her eyes are pleading, and Anne, caught, only wavers a little before giving in, swooping to her wardrobe to hoist out her options.

“I’m stuck between the two of these. The blue one is so lovely, and it would be quite easy to go as a princess of sorts in it- but then again it’s Hallows' Eve, and if I take this one I could go as Dracula’s Bride- with the right make-up, of course. Although I’ve never seen a red-haired vampire before.”

“I see,” Diana says, squinting in concentration before turning to her own wardrobe. “I don’t know that I have anything ghoul-ish to wear.”

Anne is about to offer advice when she spots something lying in the corner of her wardrobe and inspiration strikes boldly, her chest tightening with anticipatory glee. 

“Hold that thought, Diana- it has just occurred to me that I might wear these.”

She brandishes the trousers, and Diana’s eyes go wide.

“Anne! Where on earth did you get those? They’re not-“

“They are,” Anne affirms, before blushing a little at the implied accusation, “But it’s nothing like that! Last time he visited there was a leak in the room he was staying in, and they had nowhere to dry clothes, so he asked if he might leave them here to dry, don’t you recall? I suppose he must have forgotten them- certainly I don’t remember them getting here.”

“Oh, yes,” Diana offers, placated, though her eyes are still wide with incredulity as she examines the trousers. “You’re not really considering wearing them, are you? They’d be too large, for one.”

“I’m sure I can make do,” Anne protests, hoisting up her skirt to pull the trousers on. They’re a little wrinkled, and too long by far, but they’re not so large as to look buffoonish. “I can just pin the ends up, and I could borrow your green dinner jacket, so it would look like a suit. Doesn’t Josie have a bow-tie?”

“You really want to go dressed as a man?”

“As a dandy,” Anne corrects, tilting an imaginary hat. “I’m sure Cole could lend me a cap. It feels in the spirit of things, doesn’t it?”

Diana’s brows knit together the way they do when she’s giving in to the urge to smile. “I suppose I could wear my green dress from London, and we could match.”

“How fantastic!” Anne exclaims, and Diana smiles with a hint of excitement, and that pretty much settles it.

Both Cole and Aunt Josephine are, naturally, dressed wonderfully- Aunt Josephine in a forbidding, greying dress as a striking Miss Havisham, and Cole as a handsome Pip. Anne is delighted to get the reference, and Cole calls Diana a perfect Estella, which makes her laugh, and the three of them arm in arm waltz through the ballroom for a while, taking it all in.

The party ends up exceeding expectations, as is to be expected; all of the guests are dressed fantastically, exotic royalty or mystical creatures, glamorous and a little scary, and Anne gushes and gapes and tells Cole enviously she might just give up her studies and come live with Aunt Josephine too. Cole just laughs at her, not unkindly- he’s off to Paris in a month for painting classes, and it sometimes strikes Anne how very much living with Josephine has changed him, imbued him with confidence. He smiles easily, blushes less; engages in conversation with strangers.

At some point in the evening Anne loses Cole and Diana, distracted by a group of Chinese guests; they’re all a little tipsy from champagne, but she trusts them with one another, so she doesn’t worry at their absence, even though Diana had been sipping her champagne rather often. It’s quite hard to worry about anything at all when she’s at Aunt Josephine’s, Anne has noticed, and the youngest of the Chinese cohort is a very handsome fellow about their age who speaks perfect, accented English, so she gets rather distracted for longer than she intended. He doesn’t actually tell her much about China at all, having just come from British Columbia, and they spend most of their time talking about the circus he briefly worked for as a gymnast. When he helpfully demonstrates his skills by putting a leg behind his head Anne is besides herself with excitement.

She is not much tipsier than she had been an hour earlier by the time she finally leaves them, having forgotten her glass altogether in her eagerness to converse, but it takes her quite some time to locate either of her friends nonetheless: she finds Aunt Josephine first, still in fine form as she entertains some French friends, and the older woman smiles indulgently at her as she beckons her in.

“Hello, Anne. I see you’ve lost your friends.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anne reassures, a little breathlessly. “I’ve been making new ones. But I haven’t seen Cole and Diana in an eternity, and I have so much to tell them- I suppose you must know the gymnasts better than I do, aren’t they incredible? I have never seen anyone so flexible in my life.”

“Indeed,” Aunt Josephine answers, amused, as her friends hide smiles. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve just missed Cole- he and your young gymnast friend struck up conversation, I believe, though I have no idea where they might have wandered off to. But I have seen my niece head for the stairs, and I will warn you that she might be slightly indisposed.”

“Indisposed?” Anne queries, concerned, then catches her meaning and blushes a little. “Oh.”

“Don’t look so worried,” Aunt Josephine dismisses, waving a hand. “She's been nervous all evening, poor dear, I thought it best to let her let her hair loose a little. Still, perhaps it is fortuitous timing that you should go find her now, so that she doesn’t feel too embarrassed in the morning.”

“Of course,” Anne rushes, and then curtseys distractedly at the group before running off to find Diana, now intensely worried despite the reassurances. Her mind races as she nears the stairs, mostly devoid of revellers. Oh, she’d known Diana was acting odd about this- and to have left her to drink herself into a stupor on her own for so long! She’s an awful friend, and Diana will never speak to her again-

“Anne!”

“Diana!” Anne calls, excitedly, and laughs in surprise when Diana flings herself at her and nearly hugs her off her feet. “Oh! I’ve been looking for you!”

“So have I,” Diana giggles, rosy-cheeked and wobbly. “Isn’t this party stupendous?”

“Has Cole been gone long?” Anne inquires, glancing around for him, because it is rather uncharacteristic of him to just abandon Diana like this. Diana gives a very un-lady-like snort, belatedly covering her face with a hand.

“No, no. Not very long.”

“Diana?”

“Cole’s busy. Cole is very busy. Cole is very busy in private.”

“Dia- wait, what do you mean?” Anne asks, a little alarmed. “Gosh, how much champagne have you had, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Diana gasps, between laughs. “I stopped counting. Isn’t everyone here just the friendliest?”

“Ye-s,” Anne says, hesitant, and takes her hands to stabilise her. Oh, she should never have left the two of them alone. “What did you mean about Cole?”

“You really want to know?” Diana asks conspiratorially, eyes twinkling with mischief like they rarely do. “You really do? It’s quite scan- scandalous, Anne. You might be scandalised.“

“Well-“ Anne starts, but Diana is already falling heavily forwards, making Anne stagger as she clumsily grabs at her shoulder, presses her mouth to Anne’s cheek in an attempt to reach her ears.

“Cole’s in the garden with a boy,” Diana whisper-shouts, the odd feeling of hot breath on her ear making Anne shiver even as her mind tries to catch-up. “Guess what they’re doing.”

“Oh- I-“

“They’re kissing,” Diana finishes, triumphant, and then slumps so her head is nestled in Anne’s shoulder, peals of laughter shaking through her at this revelation. Anne’s mouth opens; closes- she is blushing fiercely, for some reason, but also aghast, maybe out of worry, or just embarrassment.

Before she can decide how to respond to this information (worryingly, all she can think of are more questions to ask), Diana straightens a little, swaying to her feet, and fixes her with as much seriousness as she can muster, lips still twitching.

“Have you ever seen boys kiss, Anne?”

Curse her pale face; she’s sure she must be redder than her hair. “No.”

“It is very,” Diana starts, laughs nervously. “Odd.”

She tries to imagine it, but she can’t picture the other boy, so then she starts imagining Cole and Gilbert, and that makes her balk, scarlet and rather more understanding of Diana’s preoccupation. Still, misplaced loyalty makes her clear her throat and attempt common sense.

“I should think it’s not much different than any other kind of kiss.”

It comes out mostly steady with bravado, and Diana stops laughing abruptly, just looks at her, hard, all large dark eyes and hair falling in strands to frame her face, pink-faced and always so effortlessly beautiful in ways Anne could only dream of being.

“You know,” Diana starts, stops, rather more hushed now. “I think you might be right, Anne.”

She should be saying something in reply. She should also probably move. They are standing awfully precariously on the edge of a step, and Diana isn’t exactly firm-footed at the moment. Except- except she doesn’t know what to say, and her thoughts feel jumbled, and she can’t tell what Diana is thinking, and her palms are sweating-

Diana’s eyes have drifted to the portrait hanging above them, Gertrude as a younger woman, and Anne, as if struck by lightning, thinks she might understand, actually-

Diana kisses her; Anne squeaks, and then they both topple over and crash to the floor in a mess of skirts and surprised shouting.

For a moment neither of them move, trying to recover their breath, Anne wheezing on impact and stunned into rare silence; then she wriggles upwards on wobbly arms, turns to find Diana much closer than expected, also staring at her in shock, and they both freeze. Diana is still pink and hazy, but mortification is creeping into her shell-shocked expression, and Anne really still should be saying something, except all she can think about is Cole and Gertrude and also Diana, and so it’s really quite accidentally that she goes to open her mouth to speak and instead finds it has developed a mind of its own and affixed itself quite firmly to Diana’s.

It is an unfortunate truth that kissing makes her mind go sort of slow, because as much as she might like to think, it is very hard to do so when she is distracted by the fireworks going off in her head. It thus takes her a small eternity, or perhaps five seconds, to regain what’s left of her wits and try to formulate words again, but then it seems she’s not the only one who’s suddenly forgotten what there is to speak about, and so it is altogether quite some time later that one or both of them manages to stumble free of whatever witchcraft has ensnared them, and then they sit on the floor and stare at each other, flushed and wild-eyed.

“Well,” Anne starts. “Well.”

“Oh, god,” Diana moans, and buries her face in her skirt.

Years later they will find themselves endearingly embarrassing, but despite the silliness of it all and Diana’s protests (not to mention the horrid time she’d spent patting her back and holding her hair the next morning) Anne rather sincerely thinks she wouldn’t have liked it any other way than this: drunk on champagne, wearing Gilbert’s trousers, and quite literally head over heels for the stars in Diana’s dark eyes.

vi. _Gilbert_

The Kiss with Gilbert should be an easy one, because in a lot of ways The Kiss is _The Kiss_ \- that one shining moment wrapped in each other’s arms, carriage awaiting, sun streaming beatifically upon them as every moment of thwarted romance fades into nothingness. The Kiss definitively marks the next chapter of Anne’s life as open; The Kiss says every unspoken thing she and Gilbert have danced around for years.

Yet still Anne struggles to choose it above all else, because with Gilbert, even more so than Diana, there are many contenders for the title. In a way Diana and she have always been far better at understanding their mutual adoration- so The Kiss was the proverbial missing puzzle piece. With Gilbert, every new chapter comes as almost a surprise- marked by twists and turns and all terribly exciting. So there are many kisses that could qualify, Anne thinks, and almost daily her mood varies on which one deserves grand prize, opinion shifting one way then the other.

It occurs to her one day that she might ask Gilbert his own opinion on the subject, a solution which seems evident in retrospect but which is rendered slightly less ideal by the niggling doubt that Gilbert may consider the whole endeavour silly. It’s not that he often takes to mocking her quirks, but he’s never lost his teasing streak, and Anne is well-aware that she has never quite shook off her vanity.

She ponders the matter in her journal (a much-loved birthday gift from Cole), drawing up a really rather comprehensive tableau of the pros and cons, and is rudely surprised when a visiting Jerry sits next to her on the porch one morning munching contemplatively on a piece of bread and holding a familiar green book in his hand.

“I think you should ask him.”

It takes her a moment to register the affront, then she colours violently and slams him over the head with the journal, rendered all of fifteen for the space of a minute.

“You read my journal!”

“You left it on the table. I was practicing my reading,” Jerry defends, a cheap cop-out but a successful one nonetheless. Jerry’s practically as literate as anyone nowadays, especially in French, but playing that card never fails to soften Anne’s anger, which he knows very well, the horrid cheat.

“It’s an intolerable invasion of privacy,” Anne rebukes, clutching the journal to her chest. “I should kick you out.”

“I didn’t read far,” Jerry deflects, just this side of apologetic. “Anyways, I think you should just ask him. I don’t know why you think you could not. He is always talking about your romance.”

This is not entirely untrue; Anne colours happily, though she keeps her stern expression, proudly learnt from her adoptive mother.

“Well, true as that may be, he’s less inclined to these things than I am.”

“You are both very romantic,” Jerry disagrees. In his practical voice it sounds almost forgiving, like this is a sad flaw he has come to accept. Anne kicks him in the shin.

“Don’t pretend to be so above it all. I’ve read your letters.”

“Oh, so where is _my_ privacy, then?”

In any event, Anne takes his (paltry) advice to heart. It is true, after all, that though Gilbert may lack some of her grander romantic imagination, he is quite amenable to romance, and certainly to theirs. It takes some time to get him alone- whenever Jerry is by he and Gilbert are prone to getting wrapped up in political debates that last until the early hours of the morning, which Anne is usually more than happy to partake in, except on the occasions where she has pressing matters to discuss with either of them in private. Unfortunately, this happens to be the latter case, and so she ends up draped across the couch deploring Diana’s absence as Jerry makes an increasingly French and expletive-laden case for the philosophies of Karl Marx as Gilbert dissolves into laughing surrender.

Jerry only leaves when his train is near-departing, nabbing at least one book from Gilbert before he does, and by that point Gilbert is in too much of a state to do much except sleep. As an aside, Anne thinks, it is a great injustice that she herself grows tipsy after a couple of glasses whilst Jerry walks off every night of debauchery with a clear head and a whistle, but then she supposes that she at least still fares better than Diana.

It is thus only by lunchtime that Gilbert reappears looking quite annoyingly apple-cheeked and well-rested, an offence Anne forgives him once he kisses her head and slides into the next chair over. It still startles her some days, the two of them sharing a home, the way it had startled her to have Diana a bed away all the time when they’d first gone to college- that it’s allowed, now, to see him at all hours, in every phase of his day.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Blythe?”

“It takes more than a penny, Mr. Shirley-Cuthbert,” Anne ripostes, smiling impishly when he raises his palms in mock-repentance. Married life suits her; who’d have thought?

“All of my riches, then,” Gilbert offers, turning his chair to face hers. “Well? How about it?”

“A most pleasing offer,” Anne concedes, then drops the affectation. “Actually, I did have a question for you. I would have asked sooner only you were awfully engaged last night.”

“Nothing urgent, I hope,” Gilbert says, cocking his head. When she shakes her head his frown smooths out, eyes sparkling. “I did notice you were being uncharacteristically docile, but I thought you might just be languishing in Diana’s absence.”

“Oh, well, that too,” Anne sighs, glancing longingly at her locket. “Although- now that he’s gone, I can at last share some happy news in that regard.”

“Keeping secrets?” Gilbert demands, faux-outraged as he scoots closer. “My own wife! For shame.”

“And it’s such a good one, too,” Anne grins, leaning forward. “You know how things have- well, stalled, for a certain time, with Diana and Jerry, on account of Jerry being cautious of asking for something he might be refused for?”

“On account of that disastrous first tryst, yes,” Gilbert nods, sympathetic. “Well, I understand the man, but I have been tempted to just knock him over the head and tell him to get on with it, this past year.”

“Oh, you know how Jerry is,” Anne says, with a shake of the head, before turning momentarily gloomy. “And you and I both know what it’s like to have no money and no standing in this world, although I daresay I know it better than you. And with Diana’s family- he’s just being sensible, really.”

At this Gilbert frowns pensively, lost in thought for a moment before he refocuses. “I don’t disagree, but I wouldn’t say that counts for happy news.”

“Here’s the happy news, then,” Anne announces, brightening once more. “Diana has made up her mind to ask him herself.”

“To marry?” Gilbert asks, briefly dumbfounded. When Anne only smiles his own expression shifts to mirror hers, brows raised and smile incredulously pleased. “Good girl! Our sweet Diana!”

“It hasn’t gone down very well with her parents, of course, but what with the money she was left, well, she simply put her foot down and said they had no way of convincing her otherwise,” Anne recounts happily, feeling as ebullient with pride as she had when Diana had breathlessly telegraphed to inform her of the same. “I didn’t want to say anything in case Jerry heard, but she intends to ask him as soon as he returns.”

“It feels like Aunt Josephine continues to watch over us, doesn’t it?” Gilbert says, shaking his head. “Bless her soul.”

“Oh, she would have been so pleased,” Anne says, momentarily overcome with emotion. “Diana and Jerry marrying! Won’t it be the gladdest of days?”

“And I suppose they’ll be moving in next door the very next day?” Gilbert asks, laughing when Anne looks slightly caught out in response. “I’m not so sure Jerry will agree to that.”

“We’ll work on him,” Anne promises, relenting slightly when Gilbert fails to hide his amusement. “On second thought, I’m not sure I could bear him around the house so much either.”

“You are a terrible liar, Carrots,” Gilbert accuses, smiling wide and fond. “Could do worse for neighbours, I’ll admit. But I’ll miss my wife terribly once Diana steals you away again.”

“Not with Jerry for company, you won’t,” Anne sniffs, pointedly. “Which reminds me- I hope you weren’t intending on reading any Kant soon, because he’s absconded with it.”

“He can have him,” Gilbert dismisses, pulling his mouth disparagingly. “I never could stomach the man’s style. Perhaps Jerry will have the strength to power through.”

Distracted from her entirely too-detailed dreams of non-conventional domesticity by virtue of stuffy German philosophers, she remembers herself and snaps her fingers.

“We’ve been entirely derailed. Don’t say another word until I’ve asked my question.”

Gilbert mimes locking his lips; Anne struggles to retain her stern visage. In actuality, despite having practiced ahead, she is still not entirely sure how to ask what she wants to ask.

“Don’t make fun of me, will you? I’m asking this very seriously. If you had to pick _one_ kiss as the most important, which one would it be?”

Gilbert mulls this over with scholarly intent, tapping his knee. “One of ours, I’m assuming, not historically.”

“I’ve found it very difficult,” Anne elaborates, gaining steam at his compliance. “Because at first I thought of the First Kiss, of course, but then there’s also the Time by the Bridge, and the one after the funeral, and the engagement, and at the wedding, and they’re all quite significant in _entirely_ different ways, which makes comparison _so_ unhelpful.”

Gilbert hums his agreement, contemplating Anne with medical attentiveness before his gaze softens and she fights not to blush. “You know, I think I might have the one.”

“Really?” Anne begins, caught between enthusiasm and skepticism. “Well, I’m sure you’ve thought it through, but-“

Gilbert kisses her, fingers deftly sweeping strands of hair behind her ear and lips still faintly sleep-warm, comfortable and joyful, and Anne loses herself to it for a moment or two, eyelids fluttering shut. He takes his time retreating, dimpling as he taps her nose and sits back in his chair.

“There you have it. That’s the one.”

Anne takes a second to process this, then frowns. “ _Gilbert_ -“

“I’m serious!” Gilbert defends, and despite the twinkle in his eyes his gaze is honest enough that Anne purses her lips to listen. “Every kiss we have- that’s the most important one, until the next one comes around.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because it’s the last time we kissed,” Gilbert says, just serious enough that Anne’s heart skips a beat. “And it reminds me not to keep it that way.”

“Oh,” Anne says, heart so fit to burst that it renders her momentarily speechless. Then, softly, remembering to speak: “You really are an incurable romantic.”

“Guilty as charged,” Gilbert agrees, and leans in for another kiss.

Anne never quite takes to his answer, of course, but she certainly can’t fault his reasoning.

**Author's Note:**

> All I would like to say in my defence is that if you don't think Jerry would be a rookie Marxist you are incorrect.


End file.
